LIONEL  JOHNSON 

XXI  POEMS 

Mdccccviii 

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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Library  of 
Helen  and  Alexander  Meikle  john 


XXI  POEMS 
LIONEL  JOHNSON 


TWENTY-ONE  POEMS 
WRITTEN  BY  LIONEL 
JOHNSON  :  SELECTED  BY 
WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS    B    MOSHER 

MDCCCCVIII 


CONTENTS 


XXI  Poems: 


MYSTIC  AND   CAVALIER 

3 

TO   MORFYDD    . 

5 

GLORIES 

7 

TO   MORFYDD  DEAD 

8 

A  FRIEND 

9 

BY  THE  STATUE  OF  KING  CHARLES 

AT  CHARING  CROSS 

11 

SANCTA  SILVARUM 

14 

LUCRETIUS           .... 

15 

SERTORIUS           .... 

.       17 

CELTIC  SPEECH 

20 

IRELAND'S  DEAD        .          .          .          . 

21 

WAYS  OF  WAR 

23 

THE  RED  WIND 

25 

CHRISTMAS   AND   IRELAND      . 

27 

THE  CHURCH   OF  A  DREAM    . 

.      30 

THE  AGE  OF   A  DREAM 

.       31 

CHRISTMAS     ..... 

.      33 

CONTENTS 


SATANAS 

lESU  COR 

TE  MARTYRUM   CANDIDATUS 
THE  DARK  ANGEL 


35 

37 
38 
39 


VII  Additional  Poems: 


PLATO  IN   LONDON 

45 

THE  CLASSICS 

•     47 

WALTER   PATER 

49 

SORTES  VIRGILIANAE       . 

52 

BELLS            .          .          .          .          . 

53 

BEYOND       .          .          .          .          . 

54 

TRENTALS 

55 

VI 


XXI  POEMS 


These  Twenty-one  Poems  were  selected  by 
William  Butler  Yeats  from  Poems  (1895)  and 
Ireland  and  other  Poems  (1897)  and  issued  in 
a  limited  edition  of  220  copies  by  Elizabeth 
Corbet  Yeats  at  the  Dun  Emer  Press,  Dub- 
lin, Ireland  (1904). 

The  Seven  Additional  Poems  are  of  our 
own  choosing,  in  the  belief  that  a  more 
adequate  presentation  of  Johnson's  lyrical 
gifts  is  thus  made  possible  than  by  an  arbi- 
trary restriction  to  twenty-one  pieces  only. 


MYSTIC  AND  CAVALIER 


^O  from  me  :  I  am  one  of  those, 
who  fall. 
What !  hath  no  cold  wind  swept 

your  heart  at  all, 
In   my    sad    company?     Before 
the  end, 
Go  from  me,  dear  my  friend ! 


Yours  are  the  victories  of  light :  your  feet 
Rest  from  good  toil,  where  rest  is  brave  and  sweet. 
But  after  warfare  in  a  mourning  gloom, 
I  rest  in  clouds  of  doom. 


Have  you  not  read  so,  looking  in  these  eyes  ? 
Is  it  the  common  light  of  the  pure  skies, 
Lights  up  their  shadowy  depths  ?     The  end  is  set 
Though  the  end  be  not  yet. 


When  gracious  music  stirs,  and  all  is  bright, 
And  beauty  triumphs  through  a  courtly  night; 
When  I  too  joy,  a  man  like  other  men : 
Yet,  am  I  like  them,  then? 

And  in  the  battle,  when  the  horsemen  sweep 
Against  a  thousand  deaths,  and  fall  on  sleep  : 
Who  ever  saw  that  sudden  calm,  if  I 
Sought  not?     Yet,  could  not  die. 

Seek  with  thine  eyes  to  pierce  this  crystal  sphere  : 
Canst  read  a  fate  there,  prosperous  and  clear? 
Only  the  mists,  only  the  weeping  clouds : 
Dimness,  and  airy  shrouds. 

Beneath,  what  angels  are  at  work  ?    What  powers 
Prepare  the  secret  of  the  fatal  hours  ? 
See  !  the  mists  tremble,  and  the  clouds  are  stirred  : 
When  comes  the  calling  word  ? 

The  clouds  are  breaking  from  the  crystal  ball, 
Breaking  and  clearing :  and  I  look  to  fall. 
When  the  cold  winds  and  airs  of  portent  sweep, 
My  spirit  may  have  sleep. 

O  rich  and  sounding  voices  of  the  air ! 
Interpreters  and  prophets  of  despair : 
Priests  of  a  fearful  sacrament !     I  come, 
To  make  with  you  mine  home. 


TO  MORFYDD 

A    VOICE  on  the  winds, 
-^  ^     A  voice  by  the  waters, 

Wanders  and  cries : 
Oh  !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters  ? 

Mine  are  your  eyes  ! 

Western  the  winds  are, 
And  western  the  waters. 

Where  the  light  lies  : 
Oh  !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 

Mine  are  your  eyes  ! 

Cold,  cold,  grow  the  winds, 
And  wild  grow  the  waters, 

Where  the  sun  dies  : 
Oh  !  what  are  the  winds? 
And  what  are  the  waters  ? 

Mine  are  your  eyes  ! 

And  down  the  night  winds, 
And  down  the  night  waters. 
The  music  flies : 


Oh  !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 
Cold  be  the  winds, 
And  wild  be  the  waters, 
So  mine  be  your  eyes  ! 


GLORIES 

ROSES  from  Paestan  rosaries  ! 
More  goodly  red  and  white  was  she  : 
Her  red  and  white  were  harmonies, 
Not  matched  upon  a  Paestan  tree. 

Ivories  blaunched  in  Alban  air ! 
She  lies  more  purely  blaunched  than  you  : 
No  Alban  whiteness  doth  she  wear, 
But  death's  perfection  of  that  hue. 

Nay  !  now  the  rivalry  is  done, 
Of  red,  and  white,  and  whiter  still : 
She  hath  a  glory  from  that  sun. 
Who  falls  not  from  Olympus  hill. 


TO  MORFYDD  DEAD 

IV/rORFYDD  at  midnight 
■*-^-^     Met  the  Nameless  Ones  : 
Now  she  wanders  on  the  winds, 

White  and  lone. 
I  would  give  the  light 
Of  eternal  suns, 
To  be  with  her  on  the  winds. 

No  more  lone  ! 

Oh,  wild  sea  of  air ! 

Oh,  night's  vast  sweet  noon  ! 

We  would  wander  through  the  night. 

Star  and  star. 
Nay  !  but  she,  most  fair  ! 
Sun  to  me  and  moon  : 
I  the  vassal  of  her  flight, 

Far  and  far. 

Morfydd  at  midnight 
Met  the  Nameless  Ones : 
Now  she  wanders  on  the  winds, 

White  and  lone. 
Take  from  me  the  light, 
God  !  of  all  Thy  suns  : 
Give  me  her,  who  on  the  winds 

Wanders  lone ! 


8 


A  FRIEND 

A  LL,  that  he  came  to  give, 
^  ^     He  gave,  and  went  again : 
I  have  seen  one  man  live, 
I  have  seen  one  man  reign, 
With  all  the  graces  in  his  train. 

As  one  of  us,  he  wrought 
Things  of  the  common  hour : 
Whence  was  the  charmed  soul  brought. 
That  gave  each  act  such  power ; 
The  natural  beauty  of  a  flower? 

Magnificence  and  grace, 

Excellent  courtesy  : 

A  brightness  on  the  face, 

Airs  of  high  memory  : 

Whence  came  all  these,  to  such  as  he? 

Like  young  Shakespearian  kings. 

He  won  the  adoring  throng : 

And,  as  Apollo  sings. 

He  triumphed  with  a  song : 

Triumphed,  and  sang,  and  passed  along. 


With  a  light  word,  he  took 

The  hearts  of  men  in  thrall : 

And,  with  a  golden  look, 

Welcomed  them,  at  his  call 

Giving  their  love,  their  strength,  their  all. 

No  man  less  proud  than  he. 
Nor  cared  for  homage  less ; 
Only,  he  could  not  be 
Far  off  from  happiness  : 
Nature  was  bound  to  his  success. 

Weary,  the  cares,  the  jars. 

The  lets,  of  every  day  : 

But  the  heavens  filled  with  stars, 

Chanced  he  upon  the  way  : 

And  where  he  stayed,  all  joy  would  stay. 

Now,  when  sad  night  draws  down. 
When  the  austere  stars  burn : 
Roaming  the  vast  live  town. 
My  thoughts  and  memories  yearn 
Toward  him,  who  never  will  return. 

Yet  have  I  seen  him  live. 

And  owned  my  friend,  a  king : 

All  that  he  came  to  give. 

He  gave  :  and  I,  who  sing 

His  praise,  bring  all  I  have  to  bring. 


10 


BY    THE    STATUE     OF     KING 
CHARLES  AT  CHARING  CROSS 

C OMBRE  and  rich,  the  skies; 
^     Great  glooms,  and  starry  plains. 
Gently  the  night  wind  sighs ; 
Else  a  vast  silence  reigns. 

The  splendid  silence  clings 
Around  me  :  and  around 
The  saddest  of  all  kings 
Crowned,  and  again  discrowned. 

Comely  and  calm,  he  rides 
Hard  by  his  own  Whitehall : 
Only  the  night  wind  glides  : 
No  crowds,  nor  rebels,  brawl. 

Gone,  too,  his  Court :  and  yet, 
The  stars  his  courtiers  are  : 
Stars  in  their  stations  set ; 
And  every  wandering  star. 

Alone  he  rides,  alone. 
The  fair  and  fatal  king  : 
Dark  night  is  all  his  own. 
That  strange  and  solemn  thing. 


11 


Which  are  more  full  of  fate  : 
The  stars ;  or  those  sad  eyes  ? 
Which  are  more  still  and  great : 
Those  brows  ;  or  the  dark  skies  ? 

Although  his  whole  heart  yearn 
In  passionate  tragedy : 
Never  was  face  so  stern 
With  sweet  austerity. 

Vanquished  in  life,  his  death 
By  beauty  made  amends  : 
The  passing  of  his  breath 
Won  his  defeated  ends. 

Brief  life,  and  hapless  ?     Nay  : 
Through  death,  life  grew  sublime. 
Speak  after  sentence  ?     Yea  : 
And  to  the  end  of  time. 

Armoured  he  rides,  his  head 
Bare  to  the  stars  of  doom : 
He  triumphs  now,  the  dead, 
Beholding  London's  gloom. 

Our  wearier  spirit  faints, 
Vexed  in  the  world's  employ : 
His  soul  was  of  the  saints ; 
And  art  to  him  was  joy. 

12 


King,  tried  in  fires  of  woe ! 
Men  hunger  for  thy  grace : 
And  through  the  night  I  go, 
Loving  thy  mournful  face. 

Yet,  when  the  city  sleeps  ;, 
When  all  the  cries  are  still : 
The  stars  and  heavenly  deeps 
Work  out  a  perfect  will. 


13 


SANCTA  SILVARUM 

npHROUGH  the  fresh  woods  there  fleet 

-^        Fawns,  with  bright  eyes,  light  feet : 
Bright  eyes,  and  feet  that  spurn 
The  pure  green  fern. 

Headed  by  leaping  does, 
The  swift  procession  goes 
Through  thickets,  over  lawns  : 
Followed  by  fawns. 

Over  slopes,  over  glades, 
Down  dells  and  leafy  shades, 
Away  the  quick  deer  troop  : 
A  wildwood  group. 

Under  the  forest  airs, 
A  life  of  grace  is  theirs  : 
Courtly  their  look ;  they  seem 
Things  of  a  dream. 

Some  say,  but  who  can  say  ? 
That  a  charmed  troop  are  they  : 
Once  youths  and  maidens  white  ! 
These  may  be  right. 


14 


LUCRETIUS 

T    UCRETIUS  !  King  of  men,  that  are 
-*— '     No  more,  they  think,  than  men  : 
Who,  past  the  flaming  walls  afar. 
Find  nought  within  their  ken : 

The  cruel  draught,  that;  wildered  thee, 
And  drove  thee  upon  sleep. 
Was  kinder  than  Philosophy, 
Who  would  not  let  thee  weep. 

Thou  knowest  now,  that  life  and  death 
Are  wondrous  intervals : 
The  fortunes  of  a  fitful  breath, 
Within  the  flaming  walls. 

Without  them,  an  eternal  plan. 
Which  life  and  death  obey : 
Divinity,  that  fashions  man, 
Its  high,  immortal  way. 

Or  was  he  right,  thy  past  compare. 
Thy  one  true  voice  of  Greece  ? 
Then,  whirled  about  the  unconscious  air. 
Thou  hast  a  vehement  peace. 


15 


No  calms  of  light,  no  purple  lands 
No  sanctuaries  sublime  : 
Like  storms  of  snow,  like  quaking  sands, 
Thine  atoms  drift  through  time. 


16 


SERTORIUS 

13  EYOND  the  straits  of  Hercules, 
-■^     Behold  !  the  strange  Hesperian  seas, 
A  glittering  waste  at  break  of  dawn : 
High  on  the  westward  plunging  prow, 
What  dreams  are  on  thy  spirit  now, 
Sertorius  of  the  milk-white  fawn  ? 

Not  sorrow,  to  have  done  with  home  ! 
The  mourning  destinies  of  Rome 
Have  exiled  Rome's  last  hope  with  thee ; 
Nor  dost  thou  think  on  thy  lost  Spain. 
What  stirs  thee  on  the  unknown  main  ? 
What  wilt  thou  from  the  virgin  sea  ? 

Hailed  by  the  faithless  voice  of  Spain, 
The  lightning  warrior  come  again. 
Where  wilt  thou  seek  the  flash  of  swords, 
Voyaging  toward  the  set  of  sun  ? 
Though  Rome  the  splendid  East  hath  won, 
Here  thou  wilt  find  no  Roman  lords. 

No  Tingis  here  lifts  fortress  walls ; 
And  here  no  Lusitania  calls ; 
What  hath  the  barren  sea  to  give? 


17 


Yet  high  designs  enchaunt  thee  still ; 
The  winds  are  loyal  to  thy  will : 
Nor  yet  art  thou  too  tired,  to  live. 

No  trader  thou,  to  northern  isles, 
Whom  mischief-making  gold  beguiles 
To  sunless  and  unkindly  coasts  : 
What  spirit  pilots  thee  thus  far 
From  the  tempestuous  tides  of  war. 
Beyond  the  surging  of  the  hosts  ? 

Nay  !  this  thy  secret  will  must  be. 
Over  the  visionary  sea. 
Thy  sails  are  set  for  perfect  rest : 
Surely  thy  pure  and  holy  fawn 
Hath  whispered  of  an  ancient  lawn, 
Far  hidden  down  the  solemn  West. 

A  gracious  pleasaunce  of  calm  things ; 
There  rose-leaves  fall  by  rippling  springs  : 
And  captains  of  the  older  time. 
Touched  with  mild  light,  or  gently  sleep. 
Or  in  the  orchard  shadows  keep 
Old  friendships  of  the  golden  prime. 

The  far  seas  brighten  with  gray  gleams : 
O  winds  of  morning  !     O  fair  dreams  ! 
Will  not  that  land  rise  up  at  noon  ? 


18 


There,  casting  Roman  mail  away, 
Age  long  to  watch  the  falling  day, 
And  silvery  sea,  and  silvern  moon. 

Dreams  !  for  they  slew  thee :  Dreams  !  they  lured 

Thee  down  to  death  and  doom  assured  : 

And  we  were  proud  to  fall  with  thee. 

Now,  shadows  of  men  we  were. 

Westward  indeed  we  voyage  here, 

Unto  the  end  of  all  the  sea. 

Woe  !  for  the  fatal,  festal  board  : 
Woe  !  for  the  signal  of  the  sword. 
The  wine-cup  dashed  upon  the  ground  : 
We  are  but  sad,  eternal  ghosts. 
Passing  far  off  from  human  coasts. 
To  the  wan  land  eternal  bound. 


19 


CELTIC  SPEECH 

"^^EVER  forgetful  silence  fall  on  thee, 

^  ^      Nor  younger  voices  overtake  thee, 

Nor  echoes  from  thine  ancient  hills  forsake  thee  ; 

Old  music  heard  by  Mona  of  the  sea : 

And  where  with  moving  melodies  there  break  thee 

Pastoral  Conway,  venerable  Dee. 

Like  music  lives,  nor  may  that  music  die. 
Still  in  the  far,  fair  Gaelic  places : 
The  speech,  so  wistful  with  its  kindly  graces, 
Holy  Croagh  Patrick  knows,  and  holy  Hy : 
The  speech,  that  wakes  the  soul  in  withered  faces. 
And  wakes  remembrance  of  great  things  gone  by. 

Like  music  by  the  desolate  Land's  End 
Mournful  forgetfulness  hath  broken  : 
No  more  words  kindred  to  the  winds  are  spoken, 
Where  upon  iron  cliffs  whole  seas  expend 
That  strength,  whereof  the  unalterable  token 
Remains  wild  music,  even  to  the  world's  end. 


20 


IRELAND'S  DEAD 

IMMEMORIAL  Holy  Land  ! 
-■■     At  thine  hand,  thy  sons  await 
Any  fate  :  they  understand 
Thee,  the  all  compassionate. 

Be  it  death  for  thee,  they  grieve 
Nought,  to  leave  the  light  aside  : 
Thou  their  pride,  they  undeceive 
Death,  by  death  unterrified. 

Mother,  dear  and  fair  to  us, 
Ever  thus  to  be  adored  ! 
Is  thy  sword  grown  timorous, 
Mother  of  misericord  ? 

For  thy  dead  is  grief  on  thee  ? 
Can  it  be,  thou  dost  repent. 
That  they  went,  thy  chivalry. 
Those  sad  ways  magnificent? 

What,  and  if  their  heart's  blood  flow  ? 
Gladly  so,  with  love  divine. 
Since  not  thine  the  overthrow, 
-They  thy  fields  incarnadine. 

21 


Hearts  afire  with  one  sweet  flame, 
One  loved  name,  thine  host  adores : 
Conquerors,  they  overcame 
Death,  high  Heaven's  inheritors. 

For  their  loyal  love,  nought  less, 
Than  the  stress  of  death,  sufficed : 
Now  with  Christ,  in  blessedness. 
Triumph  they,  imparadised. 

Mother,  with  so  dear  blood  stained  ! 
Freedom  gained  through  love  befall 
Thee,  by  thraldom  unprofaned. 
Perfect  and  imperial ! 

Still  the  ancient  voices  ring : 
Faith  they  bring,  and  fear  repel. 
Time  shall  tell  thy  triumphing. 
Victress  and  invincible  ! 


22 


WAYS  OF  WAR 

A     TERRIBLE  and  splendid  trust 
^  ^     Heartens  the  host  of  Inisfail : 
Their  dream  is  of  the  swift  sword-thrust, 
A  lightning  glory  of  the  Gael. 

Croagh  Patrick  is  the  place  of  prayers, 
And  Tara  the  assembling  place  : 
But  each  sweet  wind  of  Ireland  bears 
The  trump  of  battle  on  its  race. 

From  Dursey  Isle  to  Donegal, 
From  Howth  to  Achill,  the  glad  noise 
Rings  :  and  the  heirs  of  glory  fall. 
Or  victory  crowns  their  fighting  joys. 

A  dream  !  a  dream  !  an  ancient  dream  ! 
Yet,  ere  peace  come  to  Inisfail, 
Some  weapons  on  some  field  must  gleam, 
Some  burning  glory  fire  the  Gael. 

That  field  may  lie  beneath  the  sun. 
Fair  for  the  treading  of  an  host : 
That  field  in  realms  of  thought  be  won. 
And  armed  minds  do  their  uttermost : 


23 


Some  way,  to  faithful  Inisfail, 
Shall  come  the  majesty  and  awe 
Of  martial  truth,  that  must  prevail 
To  lay  on  all  the  eternal  law. 


24 


THE  RED  WIND 

RED  Wind  from  out  the  East : 
Red  Wind  of  blight  and  blood  ! 
Ah,  when  wilt  thou  have  ceased 
Thy  bitter,  stormy  flood  ? 

Red  Wind  from  over  sea, 
Scourging  our  lonely  land  ! 
What  Angel  loosened  thee 
Out  of  his  iron  hand  ? 

Red  Wind  !  whose  word  of  might 
Winged  thee  with  wings  of  flame  ? 
O  fire  of  mournful  night, 
What  is  thy  master's  name  ? 

Red  Wind  !  who  bade  thee  burn. 
Branding  our  hearts  ?     Who  bade 
Thee  on  and  never  turn. 
Till  waste  our  souls  were  laid  ? 

Red  Wind  !  from  out  the  West 
Pour  winds  of  Paradise  : 
Winds  of  eternal  rest, 
^That  weary  souls  entice. 

25 


Wind  of  the  East !     Red  Wind  ! 
Thou  witherest  the  soft  breath 
Of  Paradise  the  kind  : 
Red  Wind  of  burning  death  ! 

O  Red  Wind  !  hear  God's  voice  : 
Hear  thou,  and  fall,  and  cease. 
Let  Inisfail  rejoice 
In  her  Hesperian  peace. 


26 


CHRISTMAS  AND  IRELAND 

I  ''HE  golden  stars  give  warmthless  fire, 
-■■        As  weary  Mary  goes  through  night : 

Her  feet  are  torn  by  stone  and  briar ; 

She  hath  no  rest,  no  strength,  no  light : 

O  Mary,  weary  in  the  snow, 

Remember  Ireland's  woe  ! 

O  Joseph,  sad  for  Mary's  sake  ! 
Look  on  our  earthly  Mother  too : 
Let  not  the  heart  of  Ireland  break 
With  agony,  the  ages  through  : 
For  Mary's  love,  love  also  thou 
Ireland,  and  save  her  now  ! 

Harsh  were  the  folk,  and  bitter  stern, 
At  Bethlehem,  that  night  of  nights. 
For  you  no  cheering  hearth  shall  burn  : 
We  have  no  room  here,  you  no  rights. 
O  Mary  and  Joseph  !  hath  not  she, 
Ireland,  been  even  as  ye  ? 

The  ancient  David's  royal  house 

Was  thine.  Saint  Joseph  !  wherefore  she, 

Mary,  thine  Ever  Virgin  Spouse, 


27 


To  thine  own  city  went  with  thee. 
Behold  !  thy  citizens  disown 
The  heir  of  David's  throne  ! 

Nay,  more  !     The  Very  King  of  kings 
Was  with  you,  coming  to  his  own  : 
They  thrust  Him  forth  to  lowliest  things ; 
The  poor  meek  beasts  of  toil  alone 
Stood  by,  when  came  to  piteous  birth 
The  God  of  all  the  earth. 

And  she,  our  Mother  Ireland,  knows 
Insult,  and  infamies  of  wrong  : 
Her  innocent  children  clad  with  woes, 
Her  weakness  trampled  by  the  strong  : 
And  still  upon  her  Holy  Land 
Her  pitiless  foeman  stand. 

From  Manger  unto  Cross  and  Crown 
Went  Christ:  and  Mother  Mary  passed 
Through  Seven  Sorrows,  and  sat  down 
Upon  the  Angel  Throne  at  last. 
Thence,  Mary  !  to  thine  own  Child  pray, 
For  Ireland's  hope  this  day  ! 

She  wanders  amid  winter  still. 
The  dew  of  tears  is  on  her  face  : 
Her  wounded  heart  takes  yet  its  fill 


28 


Of  desolation  and  disgrace. 

God  still  is  God  !     And  through  God  she 

Foreknows  her  joy  to  be. 

The  snows  shall  perish  at  the  spring, 
The  flowers  pour  fragrance  round  her  feet : 
Ah,  Jesus  !  Mary  !  Joseph  !  bring 
This  mercy  from  the  Mercy  Seat ! 
Send  it,  sweet  King  of  Glory,  born 
Humbly  on  Christmas  Morn  ! 


29 


THE  CHURCH  OF  A  DREAM 

C  ADLY  the  dead  leaves  rustle  in  the  whist- 

^^     ling  wind, 

Around  the  weather-worn,  gray  church,  low 
down  the  vale : 

The  Saints  in  golden  vesture  shake  before  the 
gale; 

The  glorious  windows  shake,  where  still  they 
dwell  enshrined ; 

Old  Saints,  by  long  dead,  shrivelled  hands,  long 
since  designed  : 

There  still,  although  the  world  autumnal  be, 
and  pale, 

Still  in  their  golden  vesture  the  old  Saints  pre- 
vail; 

Alone  with  Christ,  desolate  else,  left  by  man- 
kind. 

Only  one  ancient  priest  offers  the  Sacrifice, 

Murmuring  holy  Latin  immemorial : 

Swaying  with  tremulous  hands  the  old  censer 
full  of  spice, 

In  gray,  sweet  incense  clouds ;  blue,  sweet 
clouds  mystical : 

To  him,  in  place  of  men,  for  he  is  old,  suffice 

Melancholy  remembrances  and  vesperal. 


30 


THE  AGE  OF  A  DREAM 

T  IMAGERIES  of  dreams  reveal  a  gracious  age 
-■"     Black  armour,  falling  lace,  and  altar  lights 

at  morn. 
The  courtesy  of  Saints,  their  gentleness  and 

scorn, 
Lights  on  an  earth  more  fair,  than  shone  from 

Plato's  page  : 
The  courtesy  of  knights,  fair  calm  and  sacred 

rage  : 
The  courtesy  of  love,  sorrow  for  love's  sake 

borne. 
Vanished,  those  high  conceits  !     Desolate  and 

forlorn. 
We  hunger  against  hope  for  that  lost  heritage. 

Gone   now,   the    carven  work!     Ruined,    the 

golden  shrine  ! 
No  more  the  glorious  organs  pour  their  voice 

divine ; 
No  more  rich  frankincense  drifts  through  the 

Holy  Place : 
Now  from  the  broken  tower,  what  solemn  bell 

still  tolls. 


31 


Mourning  what   piteous  death?     Answer,   O 

saddened  souls  ! 
Who  mourn  the  death  of  beauty  and  the  death 

of  grace. 


32 


CHRISTMAS 

C ING  Bethlehem  !     Sing  Bethlehem  ! 
^     You  daughters  of  Jerusalem  ! 
Keep  sorrow  for  Gethsemani, 
And  mourning  for  Mount  Calvary  ! 

Why  are  your  lids  and  lashes  wet? 
Here  is  no  darkling  Olivet. 
Sing  Bethlehem  !     Sing  Bethlehem  ! 
You  daughters  of  Jerusalem ! 

How  should  we  sing  of  Bethlehem, 

We,  daughters  of  Jerusalem  ? 

We  are  the  people  of  the  Jews : 

Our  balms  would  soothe  Him  not,  but  bruise. 

Ah,  Calvary  !  ah.  Calvary  ! 
We  wretched  women  cry  to  thee  : 
We,  daughters  of  Jerusalem  ; 
And  enemies  of  Bethlehem. 

With  faces  cast  upon  the  dust. 

We  weep  those  things,  which  do  we  must : 

Our  tears  embitter  Calvary, 

And  water  thee,  Gethsemani ! 


33 


Nay,  Bethlehem  !     Sing  Bethlehem  ! 
Poor  daughters  of  Jerusalem  ! 
You  know  not,  what  you  do  :  but  He 
Will  pardon  you  on  Calvary. 


34 


SATANAS 

T7  CCE  !  Princeps  infernorum, 
-"-^     Rex  veneficus  amorum 
Vilium  et  mortiferorum, 
Ecce  !  regnat  Lucifer  : 
Animis  qui  dominatur, 
Quibus  coelum  spoliatur ; 
Qui  malignus  bona  fatur, 
Cor  corrumpens  suaviter. 

Fructus  profert ;  inest  cinis  : 
Profert  flores  plenos  spinis : 
Vitae  eius  mors  est  finis : 
Crux  est  eius  requies. 
Qualis  illic  apparebit 
Cruciatus,  et  manebit  ! 
Quantas  ista  quot  habebit 
Mors  amaritudines  ! 

luventutis  quam  formosa 
Floret  inter  rosas  rosa  ! 
Venit  autem  vitiosa 
Species  infamiae : 
Veniunt  crudeles  visus, 
Voces  simulati  risus ; 
Et  inutilis  fit  nisus 
Flebilis  laetitiae. 

35 


Quanto  vitium  splendescit, 
Tanto  anima  nigrescit ; 
Tanto  tandem  cor  marcescit, 
Per  peccata  dulcia. 
Gaudens  mundi  Princeps  mali 
Utitur  veneno  tali, 
Voluptate  A  vernal  i ; 
O  mellita  vitia  ! 

Gaudet  Princeps  huius  mundi 
Videns  animam  confundi ; 
Cordis  amat  moribundi 
Aspectare  proelium. 
Vana  tentat,  vana  quaerens, 
Cor  anhelum,  frustra  moerens; 
Angit  animae  inhaerens 
Flamma  cor  miserrimum. 

Gaudet  Rector  tenebrarum 
Immolare  cor  amarum ; 
Satiare  Furiarum 
Rex  sorores  avidas. 
Vae  !  non  stabit  in  aeternum 
Regnum,  ait  Rex,  infernum  : 
Sed,  dum  veniat  Supernum, 
Dabo  vobis  victimas. 


36 


lESU  COR 

OUID,  Cor  lesu  vulneratum  ! 
Peccatorem  me  amasti  ? 
lesu  mei  Cor  amatum, 
Cur  pro  me  Te  vulnerasti  ? 
Quare  mihi  Te  indigno 
Prodidisti  Te  in  ligno? 

Angelorum  Te  in  coelis 
Collaudabant  sanctae  voces : 
Trucibus  Tu  volens  telis 
Innocenti  Tibi  noces : 
O  quam  miris  illecebris 
Me  vocasti  e  tenebris ! 

Tuas  meos  in  amores 
Ta  agonias  mutasti : 
Et  purpureos  in  flores 
Tija  vulnera  formasti : 
Sanguinisque  Tui  fontes 
Animas  perfundunt  sontes. 

lesu  coronatum  spinis 
Cor  !  peccati  mei  fiat 
Et  doloris  Tui  finis  : 
Meum  cor  Te  solum  sciat. 
Hominis  Tu  Cor  et  Dei : 
Cor  Tu  Salvatoris  mei. 

37 


TE  MARTYRUM  CANDIDATUS 

A  H,  see  the  fair  chivalry  come,  the  compan- 

-^  ^     ions  of  Christ ! 

White  Horsemen,  who  ride  on  white  horses, 
the  Knights  of  God  ! 

They,  for  their  Lord  and  their  Lover  who  sac- 
rificed 

All,  save  the  sweetness  of  treading,  where  He 
first  trod  ! 

These  through  the  darkness  of  death,  the  domin- 
ion of  night. 

Swept,  and  they  woke  in  white  places  at  morn- 
ing tide  : 

They  saw  with  their  eyes,  and  sang  for  joy  at 
the  sight. 

They  saw  with  their  eyes  the  Eyes  of  the  Cru- 
cified. 

Now,  whithersoever  He  goeth,  with  Him  they 

go: 
White  Horsemen,  who  ride  on  white  horses,  oh 

fair  to  see  ! 
They  ride,  where  the  Rivers  of  Paradise  flash 

and  flow, 
White  Horsemen,  with  Christ  their  Captain  : 

for  ever  He  ! 


38 


THE  DARK  ANGEL 

T^ARK  Angel,  with  thine  aching  lust 
-■"^      To  rid  the  world  of  penitence  : 
Malicious  Angel,  who  still  dost 
My  soul  such  subtile  violence  ! 

Because  of  thee,  no  thought,  no  thing, 
Abides  for  me  undesecrate  : 
Dark  Angel,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Who  never  reachest  me  too  late  ! 

When  music  sounds,  then  changest  thou 
Its  silvery  to  a  sultry  fire  : 
Nor  will  thine  envious  heart  allow 
Delight  untortured  by  desire. 

Through  thee,  the  gracious  Muses  turn 
To  Furies,  O  mine  Enemy  ! 
And  all  the  things  of  beauty  burn 
With  flames  of  evil  ecstasy. 

Because  of  thee,  the  land  of  dreams 
Becomes  a  gathering  place  of  fears  : 
Until  tormented  slumber  seems 
One  vehemence  of  useless  tears. 


39 


When  sunlight  glows  upon  the  flowers, 
Or  ripples  down  the  dancing  sea : 
Thou,  with  thy  troop  of  passionate  powers, 
Beleaguerest,  bewilderest,  me. 

Within  the  breath  of  autumn  woods. 
Within  the  winter  silences  : 
Thy  venomous  spirit  stirs  and  broods, 
O  Master  of  impieties  ! 

The  ardour  of  red  flame  is  thine. 
And  thine  the  steely  soul  of  ice  : 
Thou  poisonest  the  fair  design 
Of  nature,  with  unfair  device. 

Apples  of  ashes,  golden  bright ; 
Waters  of  bitterness,  how  sweet ! 

0  banquet  of  a  foul  delight. 
Prepared  by  thee,  dark  Paraclete  ! 

Thou  art  the  whisper  in  the  gloom, 
The  hinting  tone,  the  haunting  laugh  : 
Thou  art  the  adorner  of  my  tomb, 
The  minstrel  of  mine  epitaph. 

1  fight  thee,  in  the  Holy  Name  ! 

Yet,  what  thou  dost,  is  what  God  saith  : 

Tempter !  should  I  escape  thy  flame. 

Thou  wilt  have  helped  my  soul  from  Death  : 


40 


The  second  Death,  that  never  dies, 
That  cannot  die,  when  time  is  dead  : 
Live  Death,  wherein  the  lost  soul  cries. 
Eternally  uncomforted. 

Dark  Angel,  with  thine  aching  lust ! 
Of  two  defeats,  of  two  despairs : 
Less  dread,  a  change  to  drifting  dust, 
Than  thine  eternity  of  cares. 

Do  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  not  so, 
Dark  Angel !  triumph  over  me  : 
Lonely,  unto  the  Lone  I  go ; 
Divine,  to  the  Divinity. 


VII  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 


PLATO  IN  LONDON 

HE  pure  flame  of  one  taper  fall 
Over  the  old  and  comely  page  : 
No  harsher  light  disturb  at  all 
This  converse  with  a  treasured 
sage. 

Seemly,  and  fair,  and  of  the  best, 
If  Plato  be  our  guest, 
Should  things  befall. 

Without,  a  world  of  noise  and  cold  : 
Here,  the  soft  burning  of  the  fire. 
And  Plato  walks,  where  heavens  unfold. 
About  the  home  of  his  desire. 
From  his  own  city  of  high  things, 

He  shows  to  us,  and  brings. 

Truth  of  fine  gold. 

The  hours  pass ;  and  the  fire  burns  low ; 
The  clear  flame  dwindles  into  death  : 


45 


Shut  then  the  book  with  care ;  and  so, 
Take  leave  of  Plato,  with  hushed  breath : 
A  little,  by  the  falling  gleams, 

Tarry  the  gracious  dreams : 

And  they  too  go. 

Lean  from  the  window  to  the  air : 
Hear  London's  voice  upon  the  night ! 
Thou  hast  bold  converse  with  things  rare : 
Look  now  upon  another  sight ! 
The  calm  stars,  in  their  living  skies : 

And  then,  these  surging  cries. 

This  restless  glare  ! 

That  starry  music,  starry  fire, 

High  above  all  our  noise  and  glare : 

The  image  of  our  long  desire. 

The  beauty,  and  the  strength,  are  there. 

And  Plato's  thought  lives,  true  and  clear. 

In  as  august  a  sphere : 

Perchance,  far  higher. 


46 


THE  CLASSICS 

Tj^AIN  to  know  golden  things,  fain  to  grow  wise, 
-■-       Fain  to  achieve  the  secret  of  fair  souls  : 
His  thought,  scarce  other  lore  need  solemnize. 
Whom  Virgil  calms,  whom  Sophocles  controls  : 

Whose  conscience  ^schylus,  a  warrior  voice, 
Enchaunted  hath  with  majesties  of  doom : 
Whose  melancholy  mood  can  best  rejoice, 
When  Horace  sings,  and  roses  bower  the  tomb  : 

Who,  following  Caesar  unto  death,  discerns 
What  bitter  cause  was  Rome's,  to  mourn  that  day : 
With  austere  Tacitus  for  master,  learns 
The  look  of  empire  in  its  proud  decay : 

Whom  dread  Lucretius  of  the  mighty  line 

Hath  awed,  but  not  borne  down :  who  loves  the  flame. 

That  leaped  within  Catullus  the  divine. 

His  glory,  and  his  beauty,  and  his  shame  : 

Who  dreams  with  Plato  and,  transcending  dreams. 
Mounts  to  the  perfect  City  of  true  God  : 
Who  hails  its  marvellous  and  haunting  gleams, 
Treading  the  steady  air,  as  Plato  trod  : 

47 


Who  with  Thucydides  pursues  the  way, 
Feeling  the  heart-beats  of  the  ages  gone  : 
Till  fall  the  clouds  upon  the  Attic  day, 
And  Syracuse  draw  tears  from  Marathon  : 

To  whom  these  golden  things  best  give  delight : 
The  music  of  most  sad  Simonides ; 
Propertius'  ardent  graces ;  and  the  might 
Of  Pindar  chaunting  by  the  olive  trees : 

Livy,  and  Roman  consuls  purple  swathed  : 
Plutarch,  and  heroes  of  the  ancient  earth  : 
And  Aristophanes,  whose  laughter  scathed 
The  souls  of  fools,  and  pealed  in  lyric  mirth  : 

iEolian  rose-leaves  blown  from  Sappho's  isle ; 
Secular  glories  of  Lycean  thought : 
Sallies  of  Lucian,  bidding  wisdom  smile ; 
Angers  of  Juvenal,  divinely  wrought : 

Pleasant,  and  elegant,  and  garrulous, 

Pliny  :  crowned  Marcus,  wistful  and  still  strong: 

Sicilian  seas  and  their  Theocritus, 

Pastoral  singer  of  the  last  Greek  song : 

Herodotus,  all  simple  and  all  wise  : 
Demosthenes,  a  lightning  flame  of  scorn : 
The  surge  of  Cicero,  that  never  dies  : 
And  Homer,  grand  against  the  ancient  morn. 


WALTER  PATER 

/^  RACIOUS  God  rest  him,  he  who  toiled 
^^  so  well 

Secrets  of  grace  to  tell 
Graciously ;  as  the  awed  rejoicing  priest 

Officiates  at  the  feast, 
Knowing,  how  deep  within  the  liturgies 

Lie  hid  the  mysteries. 
Half  of  a  passionately  pensive  soul 

He  showed  us,  not  the  whole  : 
Who  loved  him  best,  they  best,  they  only,  knew 

The  deeps,  they  might  not  view ; 
That,  which  was  private  between  God  and  him  ; 

To  others,  justly  dim. 
Calm  Oxford  autumns  and  preluding  springs  ! 

To  me  your  memory  brings 
Delight  upon  delight,  but  chiefest  one ; 

The  thought  of  Oxford's  son. 
Who  gave  me  of  his  welcome  and  his  praise. 

When  white  were  still  my  days ; 
Ere  death  had  left  life  darkling,  nor  had  sent 

Lament  upon  lament ; 
Ere  sorrow  told  me,  how  I  loved  my  lost, 

And  bade  me  base  love's  cost. 


49 


Scholarship's  constant  saint,  he  kept  her  light 

In  him  divinely  white  : 
With  cloistral  jealousness  of  ardour  strove 

To  guard  her  sacred  grove, 
Inviolate  by  unworldly  feet,  nor  paced 

In  desecrating  haste. 
Oh,  sweet  grave  smiling  of  that  wisdom,  brought 

From  arduous  ways  of  thought ; 
Oh,  golden  patience  of  that  travailing  soul. 

So  hungered  for  the  goal. 
And  vowed  to  keep,  through  subtly  vigilant  pain, 

From  pastime  on  the  plain ; 
Enamoured  of  the  difficult  mountain  air 

Up  beauty's  Hill  of  Prayer ! 
Stern  is  the  faith  of  art,  right  stern,  and  he 

Loved  her  severity. 
Momentous  things  he  prized,  gradual  and  fair. 

Births  of  a  passionate  air : 
Some  austere  setting  of  an  ancient  sun. 

Its  midday  glories  done, 
Over  a  silent  melancholy  sea 

In  sad  serenity : 
Some  delicate  dawning  of  a  new  desire. 

Distilling  fragrant  fire 
On  hearts  of  men  prophetically  fain 

To  feel  earth  young  again : 
Some  strange  rich  passage  of  the  dreaming  earth. 

Fulfilled  with  warmth  and  worth. 


50 


Ended,  his  service  :  yet,  albeit  farewell 

Tolls  the  faint  vesper  bell, 
Patient  beneath  his  Oxford  trees  and  towers 

He  still  is  gently  ours : 
Hierarch  of  the  spirit,  pure  and  strong. 

Worthy  Uranian  song. 
Gracious  God  keep  him  :  and  God  grant  to  me 

By  miracle  to  see 
That  unforgettably  most  gracious  friend. 

In  the  never-ending  end. 


51 


SORTES  VIRGILIANAE 

T    ORD  of  the  Golden  Branch,  Virgil!  and 

■^-^     Caesar's  friend : 

Leader  of  pilgrim  Dante  !     Yes  :  things  have 

their  tears : 
So   sighed    thy  song,   when   down  sad   winds 

pierced  to  thine  ears 
Wandering  and   immemorial   sorrows  without 

end. 
And   things    of  death    touch   hearts,  that  die: 

Yes  :  but  joys  blend, 
And  glories,  with  our  little  life  of  human  fears  : 
Rome  reigns,  and  Caesar  triumphs  !     Ah,  the 

Golden  Years, 
The  Golden  Years  return :  this  also  the  Gods 

send. 

O  men,  who  have  endured  an  heavier  burden  yet ! 

Hear  you  not  happy  airs,  and  voices  augural } 

For  you,  in  these  last  days  by  sure  foreknowl- 
edge set, 

Looms  no  Italian  shore,  bright  and  imperial  ? 

Wounded  and  worn  !  What  Virgil  sang,  doth 
God  forget? 

Virgil,  the  melancholy,  the  majestical. 


52 


BELLS 

Tj^ROM  far  away  !  from  far  away  ! 
^       But  whence,  you  will  not  say  : 
Melancholy  bells,  appealing  chimes, 
Voices  of  lands  and  times  ! 

Your  toll,  O  melancholy  bells  ! 

Over  the  valley  swells : 
O  touching  chimes  !  your  dying  sighs 

Travel  our  tranquil  skies. 

But  whence?     And  whither  fade  away 

Your  echoes  from  our  day  ? 
You  take  our  hearts  with  gentle  pain. 

Tremble,  and  pass  again. 

Could  we  lay  hold  upon  your  haunts. 
The  birthplace  of  your  chaunts  : 

Were  we  in  dreamland,  deathland,  then? 
We,  sad  and  wondering  men  ? 


53 


BEYOND 

A  LL  was  for  you  :  and  you  are  dead. 
^  ^     For,  came  there  sorrow,  came  there  splendour, 
You  still  were  mine,  and  I  yours  only : 
Then  on  my  breast  lay  down  your  head, 
Triumphant  in  its  dear  surrender  : 
One  were  we  then :  though  one,  not  lonely. 

Oh,  is  it  you  are  dead,  or  1 1 
Both  !  both  dead,  since  we  are  asunder : 
You,  sleeping  :  T,  for  ever  walking 
Through  the  dark  valley,  hard  and  dry. 
At  times  I  hear  the  mourning  thunder : 
And  voices,  in  the  shadows,  talking. 

Dear,  are  there  dreams  among  the  dead  : 
Or  is  it  all  a  perfect  slumber.? 
But  I  must  dream  and  dream  to  madness. 
Mine  eyes  are  dark,  now  yours  are  fled  : 
Yet  see  they  sorrows  without  number. 
Waiting  upon  one  perfect  sadness. 

So  long,  the  melancholy  vale  ! 

So  full,  these  weary  winds,  of  sorrow ! 

So  harsh,  all  things  !     For  what  counts  pity  ? 

Still,  as  each  twilight  glimmers  pale 

Upon  the  borders  of  each  morrow, 

I  near  me  to  your  sleeping  city. 


54 


TRENTALS 

^^TOW  these  lovers  twain  be  dead, 
^  ^      And  together  buried  : 
Masses  only  shall  be  said. 
Hush  thee,  weary  melancholy  ! 
Music  comes,  more  rich  and  holy  : 
Through  the  aged  church  shall  sound 
Words,  by  ancient  prophets  found ; 
Burdens  in  an  ancient  tongue. 
By  the  fasting  Mass-priest  sung. 

Gray,  without,  the  autumn  air : 

But  pale  candles  here  prepare. 

Pale  as  wasted  golden  hair. 

Let  the  quire  with  mourning  descant 

Cry  :  In  pace  requiescant ! 

For  they  loved  the  things  of  God. 

Now,  where  solemn  feet  have  trod, 

Sleep  they  well :  and  wait  the  end. 

Lover  by  lover,  friend  by  friend. 


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